


1. The vulture in the falconry

by noctuabunda



Series: Five times Aramis stitched Porthos up, and one time he returned the favour [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1222294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctuabunda/pseuds/noctuabunda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not a week went by without at least a minor scuffle, after which a couple of young soldiers appeared at roll call with black eyes, snickering amongst themselves, while Porthos stood next to them, disheveled and quietly fuming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The vulture in the falconry

**Author's Note:**

> I really needed to get this out before my headcanon gets jossed by the show. So I apologize if it is a bit hurried. And unbeta'd. Also, English is not my first language. If there's anyone out there willing to beta the next parts, I'd be very grateful!

1.

In Aramis' third year with the Musketeers, Captain Tréville brought a new recruit into their midst. Porthos was a little younger than most recruits, but already quite a bit taller than the others. He had dark skin, dark hair and a dark stare. Aramis was intrigued at once. He tried to befriend him, as he did with all newcomers, but quickly gave up when his attempts were met with gruff one-word-answers at best.

Porthos mostly kept to himself, which was just as well with the rest of the musketeers – until they figured out he could be riled up with one little comment really quickly and often to hilarious, if violent, effect. From that moment on, not a week went by without at least a minor scuffle, after which a couple of young soldiers appeared at roll call with black eyes, snickering amongst themselves, while Porthos stood next to them, disheveled and quietly fuming, until Captain Tréville called them all to order.

Aramis didn't participate because he felt a bit sorry for the big guy, but at the same time, he couldn't help but think that Porthos was at least partly responsible for his own misery. Why didn't he just join the others for once instead of always making a point of preferring his own company over theirs? 

He finally found the answer to that question one afternoon, when he returned from an errand to Saint-Denis. He'd declined the help of the stable boys to bring his mare into her box himself – but found it already occupied. Porthos was sitting in the straw, huddled into a corner, shoulders hunched, protecting his face. And oh, his face. 

“Mother of God!”, Aramis exclaimed. “What happened?”

There was a nasty gash from his forehead down to his cheek; his face and throat were covered in blood. But his expression was defiant when he raised his head and answered simply: “Fought.” 

“Oh, really.” Aramis quickly tied Rosalinde to a post; he'd have to remember to take care of her later. He went over to Porthos, moving cautiously, as if he was approaching a spooked horse. “Let me see.” 

To his surprise, Porthos held still as he crouched down beside him and inspected the wound. “I'll need to stitch that up.” 

“What?” His eyes were huge and, for the first time in Aramis' experience, terrified. “With a needle? No.”

“Believe me, this wound needs to be tended to. Otherwise, it will get infected. That's bad. It might even kill you. And besides, Captain Tréville doesn't like it when his musketeers aren't fit for duty.”

“Well, don't worry about it then”, Porthos said sullenly. “I ain't staying here much longer anyway.”

“At least stay here for another few minutes. I need to get a couple of things and you, my friend, believe me, you need stitches.” Aramis didn't wait for an answer but went as fast as he could, trying not to draw too much attention to himself while he hurried around the station, collecting everything he needed.

Despite himself, he was surprised when he returned to the stable and found Porthos still waiting for him. His face was pale under the blood and cold sweat had begun to form on his forehead. 

“Do you really need to do this?”

“No, but _you_ really need me to do this”, Aramis answered as he picked up a stool from a corner and carried it over to Porthos. “Now don't move.” He cleaned his face and the wound as gently as he could, then his own hands, before picking up the needle. “Brace yourself. This might hurt a little.”

He started on the gash on Porthos' forehead, moving carefully, but still Porthos' breaths came quicker and quicker. He would have to distract him. 

“So who did you fight with this time?”

“Henri.”

“Ah, well he's a ferocious fighter.” 

“And Jean.”

“Yes, he's even – wait, you fought the two of them? At once? That was certainly ambitious of you.”

“I thought I could take them. Wasn't anyone I couldn't take back in the Court.”

“So you served at court before? As a guard?” It was lucky he was between stitches, because Porthos raised his head abruptly and stared at him, mistrust and maybe a bit of hurt in his eyes. 

“Are you mocking me?”

“What? No! Why would I? And how?” Aramis shook his head, honestly confused. “So I take it you were not a guard.”

His patient was still staring at him. “You really have no clue, do you.”

Aramis gently pushed his head down. “Come on, I want to finish this.” As he picked his work up again, he added, “And no, I have no clue what you're talking about.”

Porthos snorted. “I wasn't at court. I was in the Court. The Court of Miracles. That's where I grew up. And that's where I met Tréville a couple of months ago. Ouch! Careful.”

“Oh. So Tréville...”

“...he picked me up in the gutter, yes. Saw me fight, then came to me and told me I should try and join the Musketeers.”

Aramis licked his lips. Careful now. “Well, it seems the Court is a great place to learn how to fight”, he said lightly. “I've never seen anyone coming out of a fight against two musketeers at once with just one wound.”

Triumph: A flash of teeth. Porthos ducked his head a little. “I actually managed to pay them back. At least Henri is sure to need stitches himself.” 

“That is remarkable.” Aramis finished his work on Porthos' forehead with precise motions. “See, all done. I'll have to start on your cheek now.”

“You do?”

“Quit stalling. Just raise your head a little. Turn... all right, that's enough. I'll be very careful. But you must not move. Not while I have a needle near your eye, alright?”

Porthos nodded. When the needle went in, though, his hand shot up and gripped Aramis' calf so hard he almost flinched. “Ow! Ow. This is even worse.”

Aramis huffed. “Cut it out, I need to concentrate here.” He focused on his task, which wasn't easy with his calf still in Porthos' vise-like grip. But if it helped him to stay still, he wouldn't protest. Luckily, the gash on the cheek was much shorter than the one on the forehead. But even just two or three clean stitches would be hard on the delicate area right below the eyes. 

Aramis worked slowly and quietly, until Porthos broke the silence. Through clenched teeth, he said: “Now I'll even look the part of the resident monster.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Don't play stupid. I know how you all look at me. You're all noblemen, aren't you?”

“Well, I suppose most of us are, but...”

“And I'm not. You always know what to say, what to do, and how to do it. I'm just... God, that hurts... I don't know. I don't belong here. Sometimes I feel like a vulture in a falconry.”

Aramis paused for a second. “So you don't always know what to say? And yet, you talk like a poet.” As he finished his work, he added: “Believe me, if Tréville thought you'd make a fine musketeer, you will make a fine musketeer. You're intelligent, you're a great fighter and I'm starting to think you're not that bad a person. You'll fit in here just fine.” He smiled. “Besides, you're going to look quite dashing with that scar. You know, maybe grow a beard, get a headscarf. For some unfathomable reason, the ladies love pirates.” He hesitated, then laid a hand on Porthos' shoulder. “Don't give up on us yet, you hear me?”

As he got up, he could already feel the nasty bruise forming on his calf where he'd been gripped. He'd be limping tomorrow, he knew it. But the quiet wonder in Porthos' eyes made up for that. 

They never spoke about it afterwards, and amazingly, Captain Tréville didn't comment on Porthos' (and Henri's) battered appearance at the next roll call; just raised an eyebrow for a second before he carried on. If it hadn't been for the scar, it was almost as if it had never happened at all. And if Aramis had hoped to have gained a new friend, well. Porthos was still a loner. But sometimes, when their eyes met across the courtyard, Aramis saw him stifle a smile. 

And that was more than anyone ever got.


End file.
